Post by Joseph Mayek on May 26, 2005 6:50:51 GMT -8
Muffled grunts drifted into the night, soft as a whisper to the ears. Limbs flailed in vain, the light flutter of wings against the thigh. Warm flesh pressed against the cool hand and knee as they pressed the dark form into the grass. Adrenaline ripe blood flowed up the undead limb.
This was right. Proper.
Pale fingers, shed of their leather, dug rigidly into the back of the neck that was the gift the night have given them, pressing the face of the unknown man, prey unforunate enough to be sleeping in the park, into the ground
There was no pleasure in it, only contentment. How it should be. A hand shake, a clenched fist, a touch of pain, a grip of a predator. Yes.
Shudders felt through the immobilizing knee, like an early death rattle, as the grunts tapered off to barely heard weeping. Death in the guise of suffocation through the pressure against the man’s back, by the face pressed apathetically into the earth.
How long? A decade? Half a century? The latter felt most accurate.
Disgust burst forth once more in the heart and slithered down through the gut like a diseased worm at the unbidden thoughts as the lips of a palm suckled the blood into the arm. Loathing lay a firm path, as conductive as copper to electricity, for the anger that buzzed on the heels of noxious emotion.
Was it for the hand she had arrogantly reached toward him with, for the caress against his chest or the grip of her fingers on his collar as she whispered words that went unheard? Partially.
Stifled cries of pain despite the lack of breath, increased pressure against the neck bringing forth the crackle of vertebrae into the melody of pain and fear as the rage roiled within.
Then, perhaps, the memories that unseemly touch had conjured, the loathing of past deeds brought to mind with crystal clarity; inspiring a self-loathing not felt since his time as thrall to a monster? Yes.
Sudden relief of pressure, a gurgled breath from bleeding lips as the gripped hand lifted the man’s head and then thumped it angrily back down.
Decades since anyone had touched him in any way other than an -offered- handshake, or when he was the one reaching, dealing pain, or the ecstasy of the Kiss. Right; Proper things.
Burden of the knee sharpening, then gone. Groans floated into the night without the suppression of the ground as a bloodied, dirt smeared face rose from the grass shortly, only to drop down into shocked unconsciousness.
That the spark of humanity left within had betrayed him with the unconscious burning of blood, with a flush of shame that came from that self-loathing, made it even more irritating. However, it was likely for the best. As the best lies were those unspoken, assumed.
This was right. Proper.
Pale fingers, shed of their leather, dug rigidly into the back of the neck that was the gift the night have given them, pressing the face of the unknown man, prey unforunate enough to be sleeping in the park, into the ground
There was no pleasure in it, only contentment. How it should be. A hand shake, a clenched fist, a touch of pain, a grip of a predator. Yes.
Shudders felt through the immobilizing knee, like an early death rattle, as the grunts tapered off to barely heard weeping. Death in the guise of suffocation through the pressure against the man’s back, by the face pressed apathetically into the earth.
How long? A decade? Half a century? The latter felt most accurate.
Disgust burst forth once more in the heart and slithered down through the gut like a diseased worm at the unbidden thoughts as the lips of a palm suckled the blood into the arm. Loathing lay a firm path, as conductive as copper to electricity, for the anger that buzzed on the heels of noxious emotion.
Was it for the hand she had arrogantly reached toward him with, for the caress against his chest or the grip of her fingers on his collar as she whispered words that went unheard? Partially.
Stifled cries of pain despite the lack of breath, increased pressure against the neck bringing forth the crackle of vertebrae into the melody of pain and fear as the rage roiled within.
Then, perhaps, the memories that unseemly touch had conjured, the loathing of past deeds brought to mind with crystal clarity; inspiring a self-loathing not felt since his time as thrall to a monster? Yes.
Sudden relief of pressure, a gurgled breath from bleeding lips as the gripped hand lifted the man’s head and then thumped it angrily back down.
Decades since anyone had touched him in any way other than an -offered- handshake, or when he was the one reaching, dealing pain, or the ecstasy of the Kiss. Right; Proper things.
Burden of the knee sharpening, then gone. Groans floated into the night without the suppression of the ground as a bloodied, dirt smeared face rose from the grass shortly, only to drop down into shocked unconsciousness.
That the spark of humanity left within had betrayed him with the unconscious burning of blood, with a flush of shame that came from that self-loathing, made it even more irritating. However, it was likely for the best. As the best lies were those unspoken, assumed.
